My hands shake.
I taste blood, yet I do not bleed.
I feel drugged when love is in me.
Yet I fleet from its addicting properties.
I am fucked.
Without any genital grace.
I am hugged by empty spaces and laced in the absence of relation.
Books and shelves.
Keyboards, pens, inks, and pastels.
The smell of myself.
Sitting here with a deck of cards.
If distance wasn’t apart of afar.
I would walk through the eaves and watch the bugs in the dark with you.